


Milton

by the_rennwood_dreamer



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Academy Era, Drama, F/M, Fluff, Humor, Platonic FitzSimmons, Prosciutto and Buffalo Mozzarella Sandwich, SO MUCH FLUFF, Sarcasm, Snarky Fitz, Studying
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-04
Updated: 2017-01-04
Packaged: 2018-09-14 20:27:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,438
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9201077
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_rennwood_dreamer/pseuds/the_rennwood_dreamer
Summary: "If I wanted a boyfriend who agreed with everything I said, I never would have broken up with Milton." -Jemma Simmons. In which Fitzsimmons encounter Tad Milton, winter, and prosciutto mozzarella sandwiches... and don't feel quite the same way about any of them. Featuring Academy!Fitzsimmons and snarky!Fitz :) Enjoy!





	

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, everyone! So, this particular piece I wrote maybe five months ago, and kept forgetting to post it. It was completely inspired by, first, Fitzsimmons talking about Milton in season 4, and second, Elizabeth Henstridge mentioning something about Simmons having an ex-boyfriend named Tad.
> 
> So here we are! I hope you enjoy a little Fitzsimmons Academy fluff!

Leopold Fitz zipped up his jacket and shoved his hands in his pockets, trying to ignore the biting wind and the fact that he’d forgotten his hat and scarf again. His mother would be furious, especially since she had personally knitted said accessories specifically for the purpose of these harsh American winters. “All that snow and wind blows right straight down from Canada,” she would complain in her rolling accent. “Can’t be good for one’s health.”   
Sorry, Mum, he apologized silently. Ironic, wasn’t it? He could memorize a seemingly limitless amount of chemical formulas, equations, and random science facts, but he couldn’t remember to bring a hat and scarf with him on his long walks to and from every building imaginable on campus, on a negative-who-knows-what-degree day?  
“Did you forget your wraps again?” a voice appeared behind him. Fitz didn’t want to move his head for fear of breaking the seal he had created in the voluminous depths of his polyester and fleece jacket. But he recognized the voice, so he scowled.   
“What do you mean ‘again?’ Since when . . .” He could practically feel the dirty look she was giving him, so he stopped mid-sentence.   
“It’s negative-three degrees out.” Simmons’ voice was muffled by her own well-thought-out, warm scarf.   
“Celsius or Fahrenheit?” Fitz asked, mostly out of habit.   
“Celsius, and you know your mother knitted you those . . .”  
Fitz broke in, “Yes, I know! She’s told me many . . .”  
Jemma continued, “. . . just for you, and specifically so that . . .”  
“. . . times before and I don’t see why . . .”  
“. . . these awful American winters won’t be the death . . .”  
“. . . it’s such a big deal!”  
“. . . of you, because you’re already small and not exactly the toughest of them all!”  
That brought him to a screeching halt. “Excuse me?”  
Jemma blushed slightly, or maybe it was the cold. “All I mean is that you’re not . . . hardy . . . like some people, and you don’t have much, ah, insulation. Natural insulation.”  
His brow drew together almost imperceptibly. “What?”  
“Well,” Simmons rambled, “fat is a natural insulator, and of course you would think that someone who ate as much as you would have more fat but no, so you have to protect yourself with more . . . ah . . . artificial means of insulation.”  
The blank stare wouldn’t be swayed.   
Finally she gave in. “Oh, forget it if that’s what you want. Anyway, were you headed to your flat?”  
Relieved to have the subject dropped, Fitz nodded. “Something you need?”  
“Oh, no. Well, not really. I just . . . Well, I wanted to show you something. Or rather, introduce . . . I mean . . . There’s someone I want you to meet.”

<><><><><><><>

“Simmons, you have got to be kidding me.”  
“Fitz, shut up! He’s really nice when you get to know him! And keep your voice down, he’s right there.”  
“My voice is down!”   
Jemma rolled her eyes, then dragged Fitz the rest of the agonizing distance to where the man stood. She then proceeded to latch herself onto this strange guy’s arm and smile winningly.  
With one glance, Fitz decided he hated this guy who seemed to look at Jemma a little too familiarly, and who immediately extended a thick hand, scrunched his wide-looking mouth into a little “O” shape, drew his eyebrows up nearly to his thin, over-combed hairline, and in a nasally yet throaty voice, announced, “Hi, I’m Milton. Tad Milton.”   
His eye involuntarily twitched, but Fitz plastered on a half-smile and shook the guy’s hand. “Fitz,” he said shortly. Out of the corner of his eye, he felt more than saw Jemma’s look that just screamed, “Be nice!”   
“You a friend of Jemma’s?” Milton asked in his obviously-American accent.  
“Yes,” Simmons answered quickly before Fitz could make his sarcastic remark. “We’ve been friends since our first year here.”   
“Oh, good, good,” Milton bobbed his head, causing his cheeks to jiggle. “I love friends. Friends are great. So, you in engineering?” His gaze fixed on the ID tag Fitz wore on his shirt collar.   
“Yeah. Engineering. Third year. You?”  
Jemma answered for Milton: “He’s in Biology!”  
Again, the cheeks bobbed and jiggled, slightly mesmerizing. “Yep, yep. Biology. Fourth year. Love it here, just love it. Great place, don’t you think?”  
Fitz nodded once. “Yeah.”  
Milton reached a hand down to adjust the hem of his olive polo shirt.   
Jemma broke the silence. “What I wanted to tell you, Fitz, was that Tad—or, Agent Milton—and I have begun . . . We’re ah . . . in a relationship.”   
That comment took him so completely by surprise, Fitz physically stumbled backward. “Wait, you . . . what? What? No, wait . . . What? Really?”   
“Yep, yep, that we are.” Milton’s cheeks jiggled wildly. “Dating. Since two days ago.”  
“Three,” Jemma corrected.  
“Yeah, yeah, that’s what I meant. Three.”   
Fitz was suddenly very aware of his backpack straps digging into his shoulders, and the draft coming in through the windows to his left. He could fix those if the building let him. He shifted his weight as he switched his glance between this stupid, fat, cabbage-headed jerk who could barely think for himself, and Fitz’s own very precious-to-him, brilliant, very pretty (but of course he would never admit that out loud) best friend.   
“Well, I suppose . . . I mean, that’s fantastic. Now, I need to . . .” he mumbled some excuse as he turned and strode, with as much class as he could muster while carrying a backpack, out the wide double doors. 

<><><><><><><>

“Just give him a chance, please!” Simmons set her mug of tea on the end table and picked up her laptop again.   
“I don’t see why I should.”   
“He’s really a very nice person once you get to know him, honestly!”  
Fitz tore his eyes away from his essay and gave his friend the most disbelieving look. “Simmons. He’s a total American scientist-wannabe.”  
“What’s wrong with being American? And he does have a PhD, just like the rest of us.”  
“The guy wears saddle loafers.”  
“So?”  
The essay had to be written, and Fitz had already procrastinated, as usual. So he decided, rather wisely for once, not to answer that probably-rhetorical question.   
But the subject couldn’t be dropped for long. After he made an emergency dash to the kitchen for some chips and soda, then again settled himself onto his under-stuffed couch and hoisted his laptop and papers onto his lap, he said, “Have you talked with your parents?”  
“About Milton?”  
“Jemma, that name alone . . . How do you put up with it?”  
“’Milton’ is a very respectable name. It has history and meaning. At least it’s not something like ‘Smith’ or something else extraordinarily . . .”  
“ . . . American,” Fitz finished.   
“Yes. And yes, I spoke with Dad about Tad, just like I did about you.”  
“You didn’t speak to your parents about me!” Fitz tried to keep his voice from squeaking, he really did. But things don’t always go as planned.   
“I did, because . . .”  
“But we’re best friends! I don’t . . .”  
“. . . we may be just friends, but you’re still . . .”  
“. . . see why you make everything complicated, Jemma, it’s . . .”  
“. . . a male and males are prone to . . .”  
“. . . not like we’re dating or ever will, so why . . .”  
“. . . rash decisions, especially you, and . . .”  
“. . . would you even bother?”  
“. . . Dad likes to know about the males I spend my time with.”  
With a huff, Fitz turned his eyes to his laptop screen again, occasionally craning his neck to read a certain paper.   
“You really ought to get a desk.”  
Amazing how this girl could change subjects in the span of thirty seconds.  
Fitz motioned to the coffee table that was home to most of his desk-like work. “I have this. And I have that one in the lab.”  
Jemma just shook her head wearily and began typing on her own laptop.

<><><><><><><>

About two weeks later, Fitz was in the middle of his last class of the day, when he received a text from Jemma. “Meet me in the boiler room in 45 minutes.” The girl had never taken to text abbreviations.   
“K,” he replied, then refocused his attention to Professor Vaughn.   
But, as usual, his thoughts wandered far and wide. Why would Simmons want to meet in the boiler room of all places? They were both underage in America (both having a good number of strong drinks back home over Christmas, where drinking was introduced at the blessed age of sixteen), so why meet in the only place on campus that served alcohol?   
And why right after class? Usually after class they met in Fitz’s humble abode (also known as his flat that he only cleaned when he had company over, and “company” did not include Simmons) to work or discuss upcoming projects or such.   
He remembered with a start that today he was scheduled to call his mother. She, being the doting, single mother to such a scatterbrained, rambunctious child, had arranged pre-set call times. She despised video calls, so most of the two hours she set aside were spent with Fitz’s ear sweating as it was pressed against the hot metal of his phone and with his mother asking random questions about America and Sci-Ops Academy (which she didn’t actually know was Sci-Ops Academy, for security reasons), and Fitz answering with a well-thought-out one syllable answer or the occasional two-syllable. He was still a teenager, after all, and had a right to such things.   
Suddenly he mourned the fact that in three months he would no longer have that excuse.   
As soon as class let out and the horde of sleep-deprived, caffeine-high college nerds stampeded out the door, Fitz found an empty bench somewhere and heaved his backpack onto it first, then lowered himself with a sigh.   
Mum or Jemma? He debated silently. In fifteen minutes he was supposed to be in the boiler room with his best friend and talking to his loud, oh-so-loved mother at the same time.   
The only way to figure this out, he supposed, was to ask said best friend.   
“2day is calling mum day,” he texted quickly.  
“Soon?” The reply came even faster.  
“12 mins”  
“You can’t tell her you have to reschedule?”  
“she wont be happy”  
“But this is urgent.”  
“so is mum”  
“What if I call her and explain?”  
That was actually brilliant. But he expected nothing less from Jemma. “sure, if u want”  
“Then I will. See you in 5.” 

<><><><><><><>

“Your mum said you could call her tomorrow at the same time.”  
Fitz settled himself into the chair opposite his friend, still panting from the run. “Jemma, you are a lifesaver.”   
“You’re welcome. Here, I made you your sandwich. Sorry for dragging you here without dinner.”  
If Fitz could platonically kiss Jemma just then, he would have. “Prosciutto and buffalo mozzarella?”  
She grinned proudly. “With my pesto aioli.”   
He hoped beyond hope that his eyes betrayed how grateful he was.  
“Any chance you brought something to drink?” He unwrapped the carefully-folded brown paper and inhaled the wonderful scent. This sandwich had come about after Jemma realized that Fitz never really ate anything healthy. His kitchen was always stocked with cold cereal (the sugary kind), Ramen noodles, chips, Nutella, white bread, and soda. Occasionally a carton of milk would make an appearance. Jemma had nearly fainted when she visited his apartment for the first time.  
With Fitz’s inhuman appetite, Simmons had decided he needed something other than his daily Leeann Chin and other processed foods. So she’d set out on a mission to find something he loved and that was packed with as much protein and fat as possible. She called it “Project Fatten Fitz.” He seemed to be stuck in some sort of prepubescent, skinny stage, and he needed fat on his bones. So she brought him to her apartment and there began experimenting with different types of salads, pastas, casseroles, meats (grilled, fried, baked, and boiled), potato dishes, noodle salads, sandwiches, and soups.   
It turned out that he was a huge fan of prosciutto, and mozzarella cheese. So Jemma concocted a sandwich using the two, but they both decided it needed something else, so she hunted around for something original, and soon had the brilliant idea of whipping up a batch of homemade pesto aioli. She dropped a few spoonfuls on top of the cheese, and soon had a sandwich Fitz practically worshiped.   
“I didn’t really think about water, sorry.”   
Fitz groaned, set his uneaten sandwich down, and stood quickly, reaching for his wallet. “They’ve got to have something non-alcoholic at the bar.”  
A few minutes later, he was seated again, happily tucking into his sandwich and sipping his Gatorade.   
“So,” he asked after the third bite, “why is sitting and staring at me eat urgent?”  
Simmons seemed to snap out of a trance. “Oh, right. Well, I sort of thought . . . I mean, I didn’t assume . . . but I figured you could help me with something.”  
“Sure, as long as it’s not some kind of disgusting project like last time.”  
Jemma’s face broke into a wide, enthusiastic grin. “That was fun, wasn’t it?!”  
The fourth bite of sandwich nearly reappeared. “Uh, what?” Fitz sputtered. “Fun? Yeah, if you call digging around in an old rotting carcass ‘fun.’”   
“Oh, don’t be such a baby. It was only a penguin.”  
“Yeah, a three-week-dead penguin with a flesh-eating bacterial infection!”   
“We made some great discoveries! Remember how the bacteria had only eaten the beak and feet when we found it? Then after only a day in the lab, it had eaten the brain and part of the throat . . .”  
Simmons was having too much fun. Fitz could practically feel his face turn green. He put the sandwich down shakily, leaning back in his chair and tilting his head up to gaze at the ceiling. “Um, anyway,” he squeaked. “Helping you?”  
“Right, that.” Jemma swirled her water around in its glass. “Well, see, I have a date with Milton tonight. Actually, he’s coming to pick me up in about an hour.”  
“Ugh, Simmons . . .”  
“Shush. I have a date with Milton, and I have to ask you a few things, since you’re . . . well . . . a male.”  
“Flattering way to put it.”  
“I said shush. Now listen to me.”   
For once, Fitz listened. She was, after all, his best friend, and was asking for a little guy advice. (Wow, how the tables have turned.)  
“So, here’s my problem: Milton always agrees with everything I say. He didn’t at first, when we first started dating.”  
“Didn’t seem like that to me,” Fitz scoffed.  
The death glare Simmons sent him finally shut him up for good, and he attacked his sandwich while listening.   
“Now, what I need is advice on how to get him to stop it. It’s getting more obnoxious every time we go out, and it’s beginning to get on my nerves. He never disagrees with me, and that’s the best part of a conversation! Sharing views, disagreeing on little things? Don’t you think so?”  
Fitz was very, very tempted to say “no,” but some sort of higher power shut his mouth in the process. He nodded instead.  
“Anyway, I thought maybe you, being a . . . male . . . could tell me how to get him to say something other than ‘Oh, of course, Jemma.’ Or ‘I absolutely agree,’ or ‘Great point, that’s true.’”   
Fitz raised one eyebrow. “You know I’m not a guy whisperer, right?” Oh, that came out wrong.  
It was Jemma’s turn to quirk an eyebrow. “But you are a guy.”  
Giving a long, dramatic sigh, Fitz leaned back in his chair. “Look, Simmons, I don’t think Milton is going to change much. He probably has no opinion about anything. He just feeds off of other people’s opinions, like a parasite.” The comparison was too good not to make.   
“Ugh, Fitz!” 

<><><><><><><>

The last time Fitz purposefully thought about Milton was the day Jemma announced their long-awaited breakup.  
That event began with another text from Jemma, again after Professor Vaughn’s class. Fitz had just stepped out the door of the lecture hall, when his phone buzzed.   
“I broke up with Milton,” the screen declared proudly under Jemma’s name.   
He had to come to a complete stop and process that bit of information. Finally he replied, “Srsly?!”  
The answer came almost too quickly. “Don’t sound so excited.”  
“sorry”  
Then his phone rang, and upon seeing Simmons’ name, Fitz began right away with, “I am going to sound excited because this is big news. Finally getting rid of Cabbage Head, are we?”  
“I didn’t get rid of him,” Jemma insisted. Fitz could clearly picture her exasperated face: her eyes rolled upwards, her shoulders slumped, her head lolling backward. “I merely told him that I can’t date him anymore. There is a world of difference.”  
“Whatever you say.”  
“Now don’t you turn into Milton!!!”

<><><><><><><>

The last time he saw Milton was, surprisingly, six years later, after Fitzsimmons received orders from Sci-Ops to join Agent Coulson and a few others on a specialized team.   
They hadn’t passed their field assessments by a long shot, so Simmons thought they were doomed to spend the rest of their days in a lab somewhere, getting pastier by the moment. But that was alright with Fitz, as long as Simmons was with him, and as long as the lab was stocked with snacks. But then the transfer papers appeared on their desks and the order came for Agents Doctors Fitz and Simmons to ship out in twenty-eight days.  
Three days before they had to leave, Agent Tad Milton seemed to appear out of thin air, in front of the door to Fitzsimmons’ lab. All three agents stared at each other for what seemed like hours. Finally, Milton cleared his throat and said, “Uh, hi, I’m M-“   
“Milton,” Fitz and Simmons finished together.   
Jemma continued to stare at her ex-boyfriend, as Fitz finally said, “Did you need something or are you just gonna stand there, staring?”   
Milton paid no attention to him. Rude, Fitz grumbled to himself. He owes me a ‘No, I’m not trying to steal your best friend,’ at least.  
“Uh,” Milton began eloquently, “I um . . . It’s been a long time, and . . . I heard you were leaving . . .?”  
Jemma nodded.  
Fitz inspected the guy. Something was different about him . . . but then again, they had only met once before. Still, there was something strange in the way . . .   
Holy mother of bacon. Fitz’s eyeballs threatened to drop out of their sockets. He focused all his attention on Cabbage Head’s left hand, daring that thin band of gold to disappear. I dare you. I double dare you. But the ring didn’t budge. He had the sudden urge to grasp the guy’s chubby finger and feel the ring himself, to be sure it wasn’t a sleep-deprived hallucination on Fitz’s part.   
Then he realized why Milton had seemed different. He held his shoulders higher, and though his impressive jowls hadn’t diminished (in fact, Fitz thought they might possibly have gained a whole pound), he held his chin up, but not in a good confident way. Instead, the way his chin was held gave Fitz a sudden, very, very strong urge to yank the guy’s head down to the floor, and maybe give it a few good stomps . . .  
“We’re leaving in three days,” Simmons said, without any trace of emotion.   
Good girl, Fitz praised. The breakup, though long-awaited and a good choice, was still hard on Jemma. They had spent many a night holed up in her apartment, watching Doctor Who and stuffing themselves with chocolate and potato chips while Jemma stressed about what she could have done differently. (She insisted that she’d been too harsh with him, but Fitz seriously doubted that was even physically possible.)  
“Cool, cool.” Milton nodded, sending his jowls jiggling. “Where to?”  
“We don’t know,” Jemma said shortly.  
“Top secret,” Fitz added, trying to ignore Milton’s cheeks. “Highly classified. Probably above your level.”   
“Oh, okay, cool. Yeah.” Milton scratched his neck, then glanced up at Simmons. “Hey, I just wanted to tell you I’m sorry about whatever happened all those . . . um . . . six years ago. I don’t hold it against you.”  
So apparently there was more to the story than Fitz knew.  
Jemma grinned, suddenly. “Oh, that’s quite alright. No hard feelings. And,” nodding toward his left hand, “I see you’re quite happy?”  
Now it was Milton’s turn to smile. “Yep, yep. Met this girl three years ago. Mildred. Great girl. Our first anniversary is next month.”  
“Well, we wish you all the best, don’t we, Fitz?”   
He could practically feel the look she was sending him. Agree, or else.  
“Yeah,” he admitted, albeit reluctantly, more to appease Jemma than to actually wish Milton luck in anything.   
“Well, thanks!” Milton beamed. “I guess I’ll get going. I’ll see you two around someday, maybe.”   
Then he was gone.   
“Well,” Fitz muttered, “good riddance to you, too, Cabbage Head.”  
Jemma slapped him.

<><><><><><><>


End file.
